Only Blood
by Jay Nice
Summary: Tag to 10x21 Dark Dynasty. SPOILERS. The first thing Dean did was scream. Then, the Mark called for blood.


**AHH last night's episode killed me. This fic resulted.**

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The first thing he did was scream.

A low, guttural growl rumbled from his throat before turning into a full-on, near-feral howl. He showed his way out of the bathroom and shot four rounds at the motel falls, relishing in the loud sounds and the hard recoil that shot through his shoulder from shooting the gun at the incorrect angle. He didn't care anymore. Personal safety was a luxury he couldn't afford anymore. He threw his gun into the motel bed and slammed his fists into the same, formerly-abused drywall. His right forearm was burning like hellfire, and he needed an outlet for all his rage. So he punched the walls until his knuckles were bloody and screamed until his voice was raw.

Then he made his move on Sam.

He unsheathed his knife with a flurry of motion and shoved Sam—his victim—against the wall, all thoughts in his mind concentrating into _he did this, he must pay, you need his blood to atone for his sins_. His knife moved, and soon it was pressed against his victim's throat. His motions were mere fury, and suddenly the Mark was calling for blood. It didn't are whose blood or why, so Dean latched onto the nearest living, breathing thing to unleash the Mark's wrath.

"THIS IS ALL YOUR FAULT!" he screamed, making sure the sharp side of the blade was pressing into his victim's tender skin. "YOU DRAGGED HER INTO THIS WHEN YOU _KNEW_ THE RISKS! YOU DRAGGED HER INTO THIS WHEN I _TOLD_ YOU TO LEAVE IT ALONE!"

The knife was close to piercing the skin on the victim's neck, and Dean wanted to slice it open so badly. To see the blood flow red on his hands, to hear the victim choking as he suffocated from thick blood filling his lungs. Then, and only then, would the Mark calm down. He needed to kill this man, this victim, and then he would hunt down the Stynes and tear apart their whole gothic family limb by limb, harvested extremity by harvested extremity. They didn't deserve to even be graced with existence. They deserved the depths of hell, the heights of all torture. All of them. And Dean would bring that to them. If their name's Styne, Dean was going to destroy them, end of story.

"Dean," the victim pleaded, voice quivering as his eyes traveled down to the knife that could end his existence with a flick of the wrist. "Drop the knife. Now."

"I TOLD YOU THAT THIS WOULD END LIKE THIS!" Dean screamed, not paying attention to his victim's pleas. Never pay attention to the victim's pleas. "YOU LIER, YOU DECEIVER! YOU WANT TO HELP, YOU SAY, BUT LOOK WHAT HAPPENED!" He clenched his jaw. " _LOOK_!"

The victim quickly glanced to the bathroom, but looked back to Dean. "I know," he whispered. "I know, and it's my fault, but Dean, _please_ put down the knife…"

Dean snarled and dropped his voice, but not his grip on the knife. "You have no idea how much I want to end you right here and now," he growled.

"I know," the victim repeated, "but please, Dean, this is the Mark talking. You're angry—hell, so am I—but we need to talk this out, not go slitting each others' throats."

Dean's step faltered a bit at his victim's—Sam's—words, and Sam deftly slapped the knife away from his face an sidestepped from Dean's maniacal hold. The knife clattered to the ground, and Dean let out a breath he didn't know he was holding. Something released inside of him, and all previous macabre urges dulled down to a faint whisper. The Mark still burned on, hotter and more furious than ever.

"Sam…" Dean muttered, afraid to look at his brother's face after he'd almost killed him. He subconsciously started grasping his right forearm, trying to alleviate some of the burning pressure the Mark was instilling in him. Nothing helped, however, and his mind was still playing through how it would look and feel for him to slice his brother's throat open. The Mark wanted him to do it _so badly_ —but he didn't want to.

"I-it's okay, Dean," Sam affirmed tenderly, though Dean still refused to make eye contact with him in fear that the fratricidal urges would return.

"You know as well as I do that it's not okay, Sam," Dean murmured darkly, turning away so that the bathroom was behind him. He couldn't bear to look in there at all, lest he wanted to puke his guts out. "It's not okay that this happened, and that it happened because of you."

It may have been a low blow, but Sam hardly flinched. "I know. God, I know," he echoed in a sort of mantra. "Dean, I know, but you have to reel in whatever the Mark's making you feel for a moment so that we can get her out of here and give her a proper hunter's funeral." His eyes turned glassy and shadowed. "She deserves it."

Dean knew that he should calm down, but he couldn't control the waves of unadulterated rage that were coursing through his veins, urging him to kill someone, anyone. And the fact that the _someone_ in the same room as him was guilty in causing this made him wholly convinced that he should _take blood for his wrong actions_. Someone should pay. The Mark was screaming it from the rooftops.

But instead of letting his inner, homicidal natures show, he only murmured, "Yeah."

It seemed like they were moving through a haze as they grabbed her body. Dean refused to let Sam touch her, since Sam's the one who ruined everything, and cradled her head to his chest. "I'm so sorry, kiddo," he whispered, planting a short kiss in her hair. He hated the way her blood stained his arms. She was innocent blood; innocent blood should never be spilled, ever. "I'm gonna get who did this, you hear me?"

Obviously she couldn't hear him, but he didn't care. He would find vengeance for her, one way or another. He would slaughter all who did this, because _she didn't deserve to die_. He couldn't bring her back, so the least he could do was honor her after death. That's the least they all could do.

When he laid her down in the Impala's backseat, he positioned her arms over her stomach, her head tilted slightly as if she were merely sleeping. There was blood everywhere, though, so it was hard to create the illusion of sleep. It was hard to tell where most of the blood was coming from, though it was splattered all the way up her face and across her chest. The sight made him nearly double over to puke, but he swallowed down the rising bile. Not right now. Right now, he had a mission.

He was going to seek revenge for what they did, and he didn't care who got in his way. He'd rip them all apart, because the body that was in his backseat was unjust.

Only blood could wipe this clean.

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 **Hope you enjoyed! Feel free to share your angst-ridden thoughts on this story or what you think is yet to come!**


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